Miracle at St. Anna (Movie Tie-in) by James McBride Read Free Book Online Page A

carelessly tossed the match, which landed next to several barrels marked “fuel.” Ten pairs of Negro eyes watched him. He ignored them as he sucked in the smoke. Let it burn, he thought bitterly. The 92nd is going down in flames, and me with it, he thought. He watched as a Negro soldier walked over and stubbed out the burning match with his boot, then returned to a group that was standing at a tent across from Driscoll, staring. There was a time when ten Negroes staring at him would have made him nervous, but that was long ago. Driscoll smoked, ignoring them. He didn’t hate them like a lot of white commanders did. He didn’t even dislike them. He hated their trust in him. He turned his head back to the report, smoking silently and looking at the photo one more time. The inscription on the back said “11,000 feet.” That was all.
    He stood up. He had to pass this on to the old man, General Allman, commander of the 92nd Division. Allman had been under a lot of pressure lately, and even though he was a tough old geezer, Driscoll was worried about him. A graduate of Virginia Military Institute, five feet two inches of steel-blue eyes and grit, Allman didn’t think coloreds were qualified to command, and he said it. He didn’t think many of the whites assigned to the division were up to the task either, and he said that, too. The coloreds hated him, and the second-rate white officers weren’t crazy about him either. His only son was missing in action in France; racial unrest, fights, shootings, and stabbings were tearing the division apart; and the big boys up in England and France had underestimated the Germans’ strength in Italy, which was why they were getting their asses kicked right now. Allman already knew the score on the canal, but he always wanted the gory details anyway, plus he needed to see this photograph. The photograph was muddy, a fake, Driscoll decided. Of unknown origin, possibly altered to appear British. No way would the Germans waste that amount of men and resources on this stretch of Italy. If they made a stand, it would be at La Spezia or at the Brenner Pass, near the Austrian border. But he’d let the general decide. That was his job.
    As he rose, Driscoll noticed a lieutenant standing among those watching him. He had gone to a museum in Pisa on leave two weeks before and was surprised to find a group of Negroes from the division there admiring some of the paintings, this lieutenant among them. There was something in the man’s face Driscoll did not like. He called him over.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, Birdsong?”
    â€œUm . . . Captain Nokes is interrogating a prisoner in regimental headquarters two, sir. Perhaps . . . perhaps you’d like to hear what he has to say.”
    Driscoll frowned. The Negro division lived on rumors. The last one, about two colored soldiers hanged from trees outside Lucca for sleeping with an Italian prostitute, nearly caused a mutiny in one of the companies. He decided to nip this potential for rumor in the bud. “Let’s go,” he said.
    He followed Birdsong to a large regimental tent. Standing inside was Captain Nokes, the white captain who had just transferred in, and a small Italian priest. Captain Nokes’s eyes widened when he saw Driscoll. He snapped to attention and saluted.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Driscoll said.
    â€œNothing, sir. Just questioning this priest here.”
    â€œYou know Italian?”
    â€œI can speak a few words, yes.”
    Driscoll watched Birdsong shift uncomfortably.
    â€œWhat’s he talking about?”
    â€œNothing,” Nokes said. “Well, a few things about where we can find some German prisoners is all. But nothing out of the ordinary.”
    The priest was very young, with a large, brimmed hat and the flushed face of a drinker. He had no shoes. His collar was filthy, soot-black, and his face sweaty. He had the largest pair of ears that Driscoll